Judy Duarte - A Bride for a Blue-Ribbon Cowboy

“The first number is a sundress designed by Catarini, a new designer out of New York.”

Oh, for Pete’s sake. The woman could can the commentary. All he cared about was whether it looked good on Cindy and whether she liked it.

But as Cindy walked timidly from the fitting room, wearing a slinky green sundress that showed off a heck of a lot more of her than the jeans and shirt she’d worn in there, he nearly dropped his teeth.

The petite redhead tugged at the material that slid tauntingly over her hips. “What do you think? Is it too small?”

No. Yes. Heck, he didn’t know.

She turned around and glanced over her shoulder to get a different view of her reflection. “I’m not comfortable with my legs showing.”

He didn’t know why. She had great legs. Not very long, of course, since she only stood a whisper over five feet. But they were shaped perfectly.

“The dress looks good,” he said, his voice coming out in a choked whisper. Real good.

“Do you think Robby will pay more attention to me if I wear something like this?” she asked.

Heck, yeah. Unless the bookworm was blind. All Blake knew was that it would sure make him sit up and take notice.

She tugged at the hem, which rested just above the knee, apparently still stressing about the length.

“Why aren’t you comfortable with your legs showing?” he asked.

“Someone once told me that my knees were knobby, so I’ve kept them covered up ever since.” She glanced in the mirror, checking her hemline. Then she looked at him as though wanting confirmation.

Something told him that he might have been the one who had teased her. “If it was me, I’m sorry. You have great legs and knees. I was either lying, or you outgrew that coltish stage.” Then he looked at the salesclerk. “We’ll take it.”

The woman clapped her hands without making much of a sound. “I knew you’d like it. She has a lovely shape and can wear those formfitting outfits.”

“I’m a little self-conscious dressed like this,” Cindy admitted.

“You shouldn’t be, dear.” The woman grinned. “Now go in and try on those black cropped pants and the top that goes with it.”

Before long, Cindy returned wearing a pair of pants that rode low on her hips and a jungle-print blouse that left a strip of her waistline bare. Blake knew that was the style. And he liked the look, especially on other women. But he wasn’t sure he wanted Cindy parading the streets of Blossom like that.

He’d had no idea what she’d been hiding behind denim and flannel.

Ten minutes later, Blake paid for the purchases, which included three different pants outfits, two dresses—one yellow, the other black—and a pair of black heels. The salesclerk also rang up the white silky blouse, blue skirt and strappy sandals Cindy was wearing.

As the saleslady carefully packed each item in a piece of tissue, she smiled.

No doubt about it. That had to be an I’m-counting-my-hefty-commission grin. But what the heck. Cindy deserved a shopping spree, and he was happy he could provide her one.

“You don’t mind if I wear this out, do you?” Cindy glanced at the skirt she wore, again tugging at the hem even though it really wasn’t too short. “It’s kind of skimpy.”

“And very fashionable,” the clerk added. “You look fabulous.”

Blake had to agree. But he still wasn’t sure he wanted her walking around town like that. And he didn’t have the foggiest notion why.

Just looking out for her, he supposed. That’s all.

As they headed for the door, he studied the young woman who walked in front of him.

The stretchy blue fabric caressed the curves she’d been hiding beneath baggy denim, and he doubted there was a man alive who wouldn’t take a second look. At least from the neck down.

If she learned to fix her hair and put on some makeup, she’d actually be able to set her sights on someone a lot better than Robby Bradshaw—an assessment Blake easily made without even meeting the guy.

As they stepped out into the late-afternoon sun, Cindy balked. “I feel half-dressed, no matter what that saleslady told me. Maybe I ought to run back inside and put on my jeans.”

“Don’t bother. You may as well get used to the attention. Those new clothes look nice on you. That saleslady wasn’t just stringing you along.”

Cindy beamed, then threw her arms around him and gave him a quick hug. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” As he returned her embrace, his hands slid along the sleek fabric of a blouse that rode a little too high up her back, and a jolt of heat shimmied through his blood. He dropped his arms and stepped back.

Cindy may have been twenty-two, but to him she was just a kid. A babe in the woods.

A woman-child poised on the verge of consenting adulthood. And he meant to look after her until she could handle being at that stage in her life.

“Come on. Next stop is the Cut N Curl.”

A bell over the door announced their arrival, as Blake and Cindy entered the only beauty shop in town, a busy place with a bright orange-and-yellow decor. The scent of hairspray and nail polish lingered in the warm and stuffy room.

It looked different than it had the last time Cindy had been in here.

A petite woman with big hair the color of an orange neon light sat behind the appointment desk. She looked up and flashed them a cheerful smile. “Hello, there. Welcome to the Cut N Curl. My name is Wanda Mae. How can I help you?”

Cindy looked at Blake. He seemed to know what he was doing, or at least what he had in mind, so she let him do the talking.

“Does someone have time for a cut and style?” he asked.

“I’m sure we can fit it in.” Wanda Mae scanned her appointment book.

Cindy took that time to survey the busy room. Each of the customers had a personal beauty expert working over her, except for the lady with her gray hair rolled in pink curlers, who waited alone under the hood of a big yellow dryer, and the gal with her hair covered in little foil squares, who thumbed through a gossip magazine.

A matronly woman appeared to be dozing while her bare feet soaked in a bubbling tub of water. Getting a pedicure, Cindy supposed.

One young girl, who looked as though her hair had been dyed with jet-black ink, sat before a mirror, watching closely as a tall blond beautician took a scissors to locks that were already short and scraggly.

The place was amazing, and not at all what Cindy had remembered. She couldn’t believe the lengths women went to improve their looks.

Had that been her problem in the past? Too little fuss and effort?

Wanda Mae clicked her tongue and furrowed her brow, as she twisted a lock of neon-orange hair and studied the book. “We’re a little full, but I suppose I could do it myself.”

Oh, no. Cindy could imagine herself walking out of here with her hair the same color as a highway worker’s safety vest.

She tugged at Blake’s chambray shirtsleeve and cupped her mouth to indicate a secret. As he bent toward her, she whispered, “If she so much as starts toward me with a bottle of hair dye, I’m going to poke her in the nose and knock her on her fanny.”

Blake peered over the reception desk and looked at the appointment book.

“Maybe someone has time to give her a manicure or pedicure,” he suggested. “Then you can fit her in when one of the hairstylists has time.”

“Now, that I can do,” Wanda Mae said with a smile. “We’ll give her the works.”

“Sounds good to me.” Blake reached for the doorknob. “What time should I come back?”

“Give us until five o’clock. We’ll have her as pretty as a picture.”

As Cindy watched Blake saunter out of the beauty salon on his own, she had half a notion to follow him. What had she gotten herself into?